


Maybe It's Something I Ate

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Helpful Sherlock, M/M, tummy troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's head in the toilet was <i>not</i> what Sherlock wanted for the start of the day, but never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes cannot rise to the occasion when necessary.  As long as his mobile is functioning...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's Something I Ate

      “John!  We have a case!  You can attend to your personal grooming later!”

John had been in the loo for a full fifteen minutes and Sherlock was more than slightly perturbed, not the least because he needed to visit it himself and now had to wait until the next opportune moment, which could be hours.  John Watson could be a very selfish and discomfiting man, at times.

      “JOHN!”

      “I hear you, Sherlock.  I’m not deaf.”

John pushed his way out of the loo and leaned against the wall, praying that if he collapsed, the wall would grow arms and keep him from bashing his head against the floor.

      “Then do not present that way.  Get your jacket, we need to leave now.”

      “You go on without me.  I need… I need to lay down.”

      “Nonsense.  You just rose not half an hour ago.  Laziness does not become you.”

John thought the nausea and stomach pains became him even less.

      “Sherlock, I can’t.  I’m sick.”

      “Sickness does not lessen the necessity for our attendance at the crime scene, nor your responsibilities to assist me.”

      “When you start paying me, we’ll talk about responsibilities.”

Sherlock had a brilliant comeback dancing at the tip of his tongue, but watching John turn green and race back to place his head in the toilet for a violent session of retching changed his mind.

      “You’re sick.”

      “What genius.  Our century is so blessed.”

      “I mean you’re _sick_.”

      “And that makes you stupid?”

      “I was exercising inflection to make my point not reiterate word choice.”

      “Oh, then it’s just me that’s the stupid one.  Sorry about that.  Wait… sorry again, not stupid.  What was it… lazy?”

      “’Further evidence of your condition.  When you employ sarcasm, it is generally wry and pithy, unless you are severely agitated, when it becomes caustic.  What is wrong with you?”

      “I don’t know.  Maybe It’s something I ate.”

      “ _Botulinum_ toxin?  Possibly, however we ate from the same take-away cartons last night and _I_ am not the shade of a nearly-ripe lime.”

      “No, I had that vegetable thing all to myself because you refused to eat something that contained no protein, saying it wasn’t an efficient fuel for your transport.”

      “And the onions were cut too thick.”

      “Oh, well now I understand.  Help me up, will you?”

      “Are you going to vomit again?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “That is not a very convincing statement.”

      “You’re worried about your clothes aren’t you?”

      “This is my favorite shirt.”

      “Oh christ, just help me up!  If vanity was milk, we’d never worry for our tea again would we, with you in the house.”

      “It is simply practical.  If you are going to continue to expel your stomach contents, you should be near a proper receptacle.”

      “Then get me a pail, you bastard, and help me to bed!”

      “Do we have a pail?”

      “I am going to kill you so very dead…”

      “One, you cannot rise without help, so the likelihood of you staging a lethal assault is minimal, at best.  Secondly, _dead_ cannot be qualified, so using the term 'very'…”

      “HELP ME THE FUCK UP!”

      “You don't need to shout, I am standing right here.”

      “I will gnaw off your ankles if I have to Sherlock.”

      “Then you will inhibit me from assisting you to the bedroom.”

      “I think I may cry.”

And Sherlock had to admit it looked very much as if John had reached that point.  Bending down, he grabbed his nearly boneless friend under the arms and gently lifted him upwards.

      “There.  Now, lean on me and I shall get you…”

Though they had turned a particular corner in their relationship, John still considered the upstairs bedroom to be his private space for sleeping, partially out of concern for Sherlock’s welfare when he had a nightmare and… well, sex was one matter but sharing a bed with someone on a permanent basis was entirely another.  However, Sherlock was not going to entertain the idea of carrying a sick John up a flight of stairs for even a fleeting moment.

      “… to my room.  You will rest there for the time being.”

      “Oh… good.  That’s good.  Can we hurry, please.  I think my nearly-ripe lime is experiencing a growth spurt.”

__________

      “I’m sorry about your sheets.”

      “I am viewing this as an experiment and have concluded that silk is a poor absorbent for bile.  Now, has becoming horizontal alleviated your intestinal distress?”

      “A little.  I’m sure if have nap, I’ll be fine.”

      “My sheets say differently.”

      “It’s just a touch of food poisoning, Sherlock.  Time will take care of it.  Now, shouldn’t you be with Lestrade?”

      “I need to remain to ensure you do not choke on your own vomit and suffocate to death.”

      “Well… that’s cheery.”

      “But likely, as you are now prone and exhibit sluggish movements.  I shall call Lestrade and tell him that he shall have to do without the benefit of my intellect for the time being.  I will return in a moment.  Roll to your side so that your life is in less peril.”

John stared at his partner, wondering if it might not be best that Sherlock _was_ out of the flat for the day, but begrudgingly rolled over and received a re-tucked blanket for his troubles.  When out of earshot, Sherlock placed his call and began scouring the flat for any medication indicated for nausea.

      “Sherlock!  Where the hell are you?”

      “I am home, tending to John.”

      “What, he’s become a garden?”

      “You are fortunate that you act in a supervisory capacity because it is only that your staff seeks to curry favor that anyone in London laughs at your pathetic attempts at humor.”

      “Well, lah de dah.  So, what’s wrong with John?”

“He is ill.  Quite ill, actually, and I cannot leave him alone lest he expire from dehydration or throat obstruction due to a morsel of last night’s dinner.”

      “Oh, ate something that didn’t agree with him?  That’s nasty business.”

      “Yes, ‘nasty’ is a good descriptor.  Therefore, I shall not be available to do your job for you.”

      “We’ll try to muddle through, anyway.  Tell John I hope he feels better.  Got any ginger tea?  That’s good for stomach problems.  If not, you can steep some fresh ginger and add in some honey.  That’s what my Mum used to do when…”

      “Thank you, Lestrade, your family history is unnecessary.”

A quick look verified that they had neither ginger tea nor fresh ginger.  There _was_ a container of ground ginger at the back of a pantry that John had used at some point and… it should suffice.  Compounds were more stable in dried form than fresh, so the beneficial elements should still be intact.

__________

      “John.  John.  John.  John…”

      “I was sleeping, Sherlock!”

      “I made you ginger tea.  For your ailment.”

      “Really?  That’s… that’s nice of you, thanks.”

      “You’re welcome… it was… what’s wrong?”

      “Why is my tea gritty?”

      “That would likely be the ginger.”

      “Ground ginger.  In tea?”

      “Yes, it is a perfectly acceptable substitute.  I mean… it should be…”

If you liked grit sliding around on your tongue.  But Sherlock had actually made him something to help him feel better so John was _not_ going to burst the poor man’s bubble.

      “It’s fine, Sherlock.  Just took me off guard.”

      “You must drink it all, as well.  The ginger was not as pungent as I would have expected so an appreciable quantity will be required for full benefit.”

Maybe just a tiny pop of the bubble.

      “A few sips is about all I’ll be able to handle, I'm afraid.  I’m actually feeling too hot for a full cup of tea.  Even good tea like this.”

      “Hot?”

Sherlock’s hand reached for John’s forehead and his frown confirmed John’s suspicions.

      “You are running a fever.”

      “Great… probably not food poisoning, then.  Must be coming down with something.  Still, rest is the best thing for it.”

      “After you have more tea.”

      “After I have more tea.”

__________

      “He doesn’t want my tea.”

      “Sherlock?  Why are you calling me…”

      “And he is now running a fever, so hot food or beverages will not be tolerable.  What is your next suggestion?”

      “Oh, so _now_ you do want my family history.”

      “Pettiness is uncalled for, Lestrade.  John is sick.”

      “Have you tried a little toast?  Or a plain biscuit?  That’s usually good.  Puts something in the stomach, but doesn’t have anything to roil it up again.”

      “I shall consider that.”

      “But, Sherlock, it…”

      “Goodbye, Lestrade.”

__________

      “John.  John.  John.  John…”

      “Jesus, Sherlock!  What now?”

      “Toast. And plain biscuits.  It will be good for your stomach.”

John couldn’t really argue with that, he’d recommended it many times himself.  Funny that Sherlock would think of it, though.

      “Ok, I’ll have a… Sherlock. what happened to the toast?”

      “Apparently, someone, who I suspect is you, accidentally changed the setting.”

      “This is charcoal.”

      “Precisely!  Which is even better for stomach conditions.”

      “Ok… that’s not _incorrect_ , I suppose.  And… why are… what is on the biscuits?”

      “We had no plain biscuits, so I scraped the cream from these and reinstituted their plain state.  A small bit of icing should not unduly confound your digestive system.”

      “Very… clever of you.”

      “I thought so.”

John choked down a few dry bits of his charred toast and a slightly soggy biscuit before the nausea rose up again and it was all Sherlock could do to grab the bin he’d placed at John’s bedside and catch all of his hard work making an escape.

      “I shall return.”

Sherlock quickly ran downstairs and hid the rubbish bin in 221C where it could live a happy and unwashed life and scrambled back upstairs to grab his mobile.

      “That was a terrible idea.  John immediately vomited your suggestion into a bin.”

      “Sherlock!  I am at a crime scene!”

      “You are standing there watching everyone else work while daydreaming about how my brother appears when he is in the shower.”

      “Bathtub actually, but ok… fine.  Look, I’m out of ideas.  The only other thing Mum would do was rub our stomachs.  Sometimes she’d sing, too or tell us a story.”

      “I am not going to entertain John with a vaudevillian performance.”  

      “Then just try rubbing his belly.  It feels good, nice and soothing.”

      “That does not sound _too_ burdensome.”

      “Good lad.  Let me know how it goes.”

__________

      “John.  John.  John.  John…”

      “This must be hell because I’m sweating and there’s a demon sitting on my bed.”

      “This is _my_ bed and I am not a demon.  Now, lie on your back.”

      “Can’t.  Choking hazard.”

      “Do not be difficult, John.  I am going to rub your stomach.”

      “Sherlock, why are you going to give me a belly rub?”

      “It is soothing.  I shall not, however, accompany it with a song or story.”

      “Guess I still have some luck after all.”

John flopped over onto his back and didn’t stop the pleased exhale when Sherlock’s long, cool fingers began rubbing his skin, tentatively at first, then with greater vigor when he saw how John responded.

      “Am I to assume this is helping?”

      “I does feel good.  Cool and MOTHERFUCKERCOCKSUCKERPISSBUCKETASSLICKINGSONOFABITCH!!!!!”

      “You seem distressed.”

      “I…no!  don’t touch me again!  No… wait… hold on… let me try FUCKITYFUCKOFFUCKINGBOLLOCKS!”

      “That was unwise.”

      “No, it wasn’t.  Crap, it’s not a virus… Sherlock, get my shoes, I need to get to hospital.”

John’s complexion had gone from pale to grey and Sherlock pushed away the sharp surge of worry that rose up to concentrate on keeping John from leaving the bed.

      “John!  What is wrong?”

      “Appendicitis.  I’m so stupid!  All the of the signs were there and it’s been creeping up on my since last night… don’t sit there!  Get my shoes and get us a cab.”

      “Do not move, John.  Try and relax.  I will take care of everything.”

__________

       “SHERLOCK!  What’s wrong!”

      “Ah, Lestrade.  I hoped you would be the first to arrive.  Help me take John to the A & E.”

      “What!  Sherlock, you called your brother and told him you needed police support immediately!  Half of the force is descending on your flat as we speak!”

      “Given the broad distribution of police vehicles in London, I predicted a much-shorter response time than if I called for an ambulance.”

      “So you had your brother pull in every cop anywhere in the vicinity?”

      “John is sick.  What else would you have me do?”

Lestrade would be happily answering that once John was sorted out.

      “For pity’s sake, let’s go.  But there will be words later.”

      “Boring.  Oh, and if you will… there’s a bin in 221C.  Give it a rinse, will you.  I fear we might be needing it on the way.”


End file.
